


X-Ceptional

by Gray Cardinal (Gray_Cardinal)



Category: Perry Mason (TV), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Gen, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 20:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Cardinal/pseuds/Gray%20Cardinal
Summary: Don’t get me wrong," said Moira MacTaggert, " but if your boss really wanted to make a deal with Shaw, he’d have brought a whole other sort of professional girl with him. ""Yes, well," said Della Street, "we shared our report with the local Treasury authorities.  And if Paul Drake had run into you anytime during that investigation, Mr. Mason and I would have heard about it in Technicolor detail.”





	X-Ceptional

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:**   
>  _The X-Universe was created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, while the world of Perry Mason and Della Street was created by Erle Stanley Gardner. Due credit for these incarnations also goes to actresses Barbara Hale and Rose Byrne, but none of the foregoing are in any way responsible for the bit of speculation that follows._
> 
> **Note:** _This story begins some months prior to the events of the film_ X-Men: First Class.

**summer 1961 • a hotel on the Las Vegas Strip**

As far as three of the four men in the luxurious 28th-floor suite were concerned, Della Street might as well not have been there.  And Della’s employer, Perry Mason, was carefully doing nothing to disabuse them of the notion.

“Legally speaking, my client is correct,” the attorney was saying.  He stood in front of a double-length upholstered leather sofa; one hand rested at his side, while the fingers of the other lightly held a fountain pen, its needle-like tip pointed outward.  “The carbon-refraction process described in that file is the exclusive property of Mercer Geo-Dynamics, which is in turn wholly owned by Dr. Gabriel Mercer.  Any attempt to exploit that process without due and proper compensation would be regarded by the courts as industrial espionage.”

The pen’s putative target merely smiled.  “And that, gentlemen,” said Sebastian Shaw, from a wide, well-cushioned armchair facing the sofa, “is what we are here to discuss.   My organization is most interested in acquiring exclusive rights to Dr. Mercer’s process, and indeed to Mercer GeoDynamics.  Shall we say $300,000 in cash, deliverable immediately?”

“It’s worth five times that, and you know it!” That was Gabriel Mercer himself, a wiry figure in a long white lab coat, leaning forward from where he’d been pacing back and forth behind the sofa and glaring.  At a glance from Perry, though, he subsided.

“Gentlemen, please,” Perry said calmly.  “Mr. Shaw, as you well know, price is not my client’s only consideration in this matter.  You’ve made it clear that your interest in this process is as a silent owner, with the ability to covertly exploit its potential to your own benefit.  That would expose Dr. Mercer to considerable potential liability, at a wholly unacceptable level of risk.  We are prepared to license the process only on a fully documented, duly recorded basis in accordance with state and federal statutes.  If you’re willing to make a deal on that basis, I have contracts available for signature specifying a license fee of $2 million for three years, payable by certified check.”

“Check? Why, Mr. Mason,” said Shaw, with only the faintest of steel edges in an otherwise silky tone, “one would think you don’t trust the color of my money.”

Perry smiled back.  “Not at all, Mr. Shaw.  It’s just that it’s so easy to lose track of cash.  We prefer to be certain that all income is properly verified and recorded for tax and regulatory purposes.”

“I assure you that I and my organization are fully conversant with the relevant tax laws…and those who enforce them,” Shaw said.  “$1 million in cash for title to the process alone.  I can hand you half that amount now; the rest will be in your hands by noon tomorrow.  And think of all the money you’ll save on paperwork.”

Perry and Mercer exchanged another glance, Mercer shaking his head vigorously.  Perry nodded, then swung to face Shaw again.  “$750,000 for a one-year license plus a 5% royalty on gross sales, term renewable on mutual agreement.  Certified check preferred, but we’ll accept cash or wire transfer paid directly from and guaranteed by any reputable American financial institution on your behalf.”

Shaw let out a dramatic sigh.  “You see,” he said, speaking directly to Dr. Mercer, “why I so dislike dealing with lawyers.  They create complexity for its own sake, where simple and direct arrangements should be more than sufficient.  However,” he continued, “if it is absolutely necessary in order to do business—”

“It is,” said Mercer flatly.

“—then I suppose I must yield.  One favor, if I may: do I correctly understand that the file you presently hold currently constitutes the only complete written record of the full process?”

“You do,” Dr. Mercer said.

“You will forgive me, then,” said Shaw mildly, “for wishing to review its contents before I sign Mr. Mason’s paperwork.  A brief examination should be sufficient.  May I?”

The scientist threw Perry Mason a questioning look.  “Why, Mr. Shaw,” Perry said smoothly, “one might think you don’t trust the quality of our science.”

Shaw’s eyes glittered dangerously for a moment.  Then he laughed aloud.  “Not at all, Mr. Mason.  It’s just that it’s so easy for unintentional error to creep in – a transposed digit, a misplaced decimal point.  I prefer to be certain that I’m getting exactly what I’ve paid for.”

“I understand completely,” said Perry, sounding unruffled.  “Very well, then.  Dr. Mercer?”

Though he was clearly holding back a grumble, the scientist stepped forward, coming around the end of the sofa where Della was seated.  He handed her the thick folder he’d been carrying.  “Verify that it’s all there, would you, Della?” Perry asked.

Della flipped rapidly through the thick cluster of documents.  She paid little attention to the technical content, but kept a close eye on page numbers, the titles of individual reports and memos, and so forth.  After two swift run-throughs, she deliberately snapped the folder shut, secured it with a pair of rubber bands taken from her purse, set it on the cushion next to her, and rested one hand lightly atop the file, fingers outstretched.  “Complete and unabridged,” she said, “exactly according to the index sheet.”

Perry took the half dozen steps necessary to reach Della, picked up the folder, and crossed to hand it to Sebastian Shaw.  Shaw rose to his feet, accepted it – and then laughed again.  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, his expression more of a feral grin than a smile.  With one quick motion, he dropped to one knee, flipped up the heavy damask cover atop the side table next to his chair, spun a dial back and forth, and opened the door of a compact, thick-walled safe.  Without so much as twitching the rubber bands, he thrust Dr. Mercer’s file into the safe, then briskly shut the door again, spun the lock, and restored the table-cover to its former state.

The scientist very nearly leapt over the the sofa, but Perry Mason held him back.  “Some people would call that theft,” he told Shaw in a cold tone.

“I very much hope,” Shaw returned, his own voice cool but controlled, “that you are not one of them.  I merely require a little time and consultation to complete the review I requested – and during that time, I prefer that the documents in question be kept as secure as I can make them.  Thus the measures you have just observed.  Once I am satisfied that the process is fully documented, you will be paid the full amount on which we are agreed.  This I promise you – and I am a man of my word.”

“In that case,” Perry said, with a forced-sounding degree of calm, “perhaps you might sign that portion of the agreement.”  He extracted a single sheet of paper from his briefcase.

Shaw’s eyes darkened slightly.  “We shall deal with that once my review is complete.  Let us meet here again – three days from now, at two o’clock.  Then we shall complete our business.”  He glanced, for the first time since the meeting had begun, at the fourth and final man in the room, a tall, burly individual whose crisp Italian business suit only partially concealed a shoulder holster containing a gleaming black revolver.  “Giovanni, kindly show our visitors out.”

Dr. Mercer started to speak, but Perry gave him a sharp, intense look and laid a hand on his arm.  “This isn’t the time or place,” he said quietly.  “Della, come along.”

Della Street obeyed…for the moment.

#

**late that night**

Della Street ducked behind a curtain as the suite’s connecting door opened, admitting a lithe figure whose eyes raked across the lavish furnishings.  The newcomer rapidly but silently crossed the room, then knelt beside the oversized end table beside the armchair Sebastian Shaw had occupied less than a dozen hours earlier.  As the intruder flipped up the table’s cloth covering to reveal the safe beneath, Della pursed her lips and stepped out of hiding.

“The file on the Mercer project isn’t in there,” she said.  “And you really don’t want the cash; nearly all of it is counterfeit.”

“Of course it is.”  The woman’s voice was amused.  “Sadly, that doesn’t do us a damned bit of good unless we can prove Shaw is printing it.  As it is, he’ll just claim his Russian investors are trying to pay him in funny money.”  She stood, drew out a slim leather case, and flashed the badge inside at Della.  “MacTaggert, US Treasury.  And what would you be doing alone in one of Sebastian Shaw’s ‘unofficial offices’ at half past one a.m., Miz—?”

“Street,” said Della, her own tone cool.  “I work for Perry Mason, and Gabriel Mercer is Mr. Mason’s client.  Mr. Shaw has been attempting to buy out Dr. Mercer’s interest in a scientific business; Dr. Mercer doesn’t want to sell, especially under the terms Shaw has been offering.  We met earlier today in hopes of reaching a mutual understanding.”

MacTaggert’s eyes flicked skeptically from Della’s plain round collar to her calf-length hemline.  “Which I’m thinking you didn’t accomplish.  Don’t get me wrong, Miz Street, but if your boss really wanted to make a deal with Shaw, he’d have brought a whole other sort of professional girl with him.  That said…for a respectable working girl whose boss didn’t close his deal, you seem to know a lot about what’s in this safe.”

Della returned MacTaggert’s gaze evenly.  “Yes, well, for a respectable Treasury agent, operating by the book would involve coming in through the front door with a warrant.  You’re not really here looking for evidence, at least not that kind – and you’re not really with the Treasury, are you?”

MacTaggert blinked, then laughed.  “I could answer that, but then I’d have to either kill you or fill out twenty pages of paperwork explaining why I let you live.  And you’d have thirty-odd pages of your own plus a day and a half of debriefing, after which none of this would ever have happened.”

“In that case,” said Della, chuckling, “pretend I never asked.  For my part: I saw where Shaw put that file, and I assure you it’s not in the safe now.  As for the money, he tried to use some to pay Dr. Mercer during a prior negotiation, and Perry’s – Mr. Mason’s detective, Paul Drake, put together enough information to establish that wherever it came from, Shaw is now sitting on at least half a million in counterfeit currency.  We shared that report with the local Treasury authorities, of course,” she added, “and I should probably mention that if Paul had run into you anytime during that investigation, Mr. Mason and I would have heard about it in Technicolor detail.”

“Noted,” MacTaggert said ruefully.  “Unfortunately – though you didn’t hear this from me – there’s reason to think that someone inside the local Treasury office is in Shaw’s pocket. That’s as much as I can tell you – and probably more than I should – about why I’m here.  Which means your Dr. Mercer isn’t likely to see much help from us in that quarter.”

“We’d more or less worked that out ourselves,” Della said wryly.  “But without Dr. Mercer’s original notes from the project file – which are too sensitive to risk making copies – Mr. Shaw won’t have anything like the leverage he needs to force the buyout he wants.  When Dr. Mercer gets those back, he’ll be able to move forward and partner with much more reputable investors.”

One of MacTaggert’s eyebrows went up.  “I see.  In that case, Miz Street, I think I’d best be on my way, but let me leave you with one piece of advice.”

“And that would be?”

“Do not, repeat do not, so much as touch this safe.  We’ve seen this before – Shaw’s had the lock replaced, and his custom model explodes if it’s tampered with.”

Della whistled softly.  “Then it’s a very good thing I wasn’t planning to tamper with it, MIz MacTaggert.  In fact, I believe I’m done here as well.”

MacTaggert was silent for a moment.  Then: “Call me Moira,” she said.  “I’ve heard good things about your boss, but he needs to be careful.  Sebastian Shaw’s a dangerous man.”

“Moira it is, then – and I’m Della, and the quicker we’re out of here, the happier I’ll be.”

“That makes two of us,” Moira said, as both women headed for the door to the adjoining suite.  “Here, take this.  If you or your boss ever need an off-the-books favor in my orbit, call me at that number.”

Della glanced at the business card – _M. MacTaggert, Security Consultant_ – and tucked it into her leather shoulder bag.  “A freelancer?”

“Unless you’d prefer the death-or-paperwork option,” said Moira, smiling, as they crossed the unoccupied suite next to Shaw’s.

“ _Touché_ ,” said Della, smiling back, as she produced a card of her own.  “And if you ever need a good lawyer, you know where to find us.  My private number is on the back,” she added, “if you need to be…discreet about looking us up.”

Moira pocketed the card, then peered intently through the peephole before carefully opening the door into the hotel corridor.  “All clear,” she said softly, as she and Della turned as one toward the stairs at the far end of the hallway.  “I may take you up on that one of these days.”

Neither spoke again till they reached the next landing.  Then Moira lifted a hand and gave Della a brisk salute.  “Till we meet again,” she said, turning to head down the next flight of stairs.

“Under less complicated circumstances, I hope,” said Della as she opened the door to the hotel corridor.

#

**two days later • Perry Mason’s suite, elsewhere on the Strip**

“CIA,” Paul Drake told Della flatly.  “No doubt about it; my contact has his fingers in all the right cookie jars.  What she told you about Shaw matches up – we already knew he was in bed with the Russians, and the Secret Service has been trying for months to backtrail all that counterfeit cash.  What I want to know is, where’d you and this MacTaggert cross paths?”

Della grinned and batted her eyelashes at him.  “Now, Paul, a woman has to have some secrets – and even CIA agents need to powder their noses from time to time.”

The look Paul gave her had _this isn’t over_ written all over it, but he didn’t press Della further.  “Have it your way.  But for God’s sake watch yourself.  MacTaggert’s also dead right about Shaw being dangerous, and I do mean the ‘dead’ part.  The faster we can get Doc Mercer off that man’s radar, the happier – and safer – we’ll all be.”

“I’m impressed, Della,” Perry put in.  “I could have sworn I saw you hand the original file to Sebastian Shaw with my own eyes – and you promised Dr. Mercer that you didn’t have it copied. But given that we have the file back, I agree with Paul – let’s leave Shaw for MacTaggert and her people.  How soon can you be packed for a flight back to L.A.?”

#

**two weeks later**

LOS ANGELES TIMES  
**_NY Banker Partners with Scientist in Biotech Firm_**

As Moira MacTaggert read the leading story in the day’s Business section, she mentally reviewed her encounter with Della Street.  “There is no way,” she said to herself, “that Shaw didn’t lock that file in that safe.  But that means either Street is the world’s greatest – and luckiest – cat burglar, or else she was lying like a rug to my face.  So why don’t I believe either of those answers?  And how in all the flaming hells did she recover the damned file without being blown to smithereens?”

#

**two years later**

The cubicle in which Della sat was not precisely a cell.  The floor was carpeted, the chair was comfortable, and the sanitary facilities occupied an alcove behind a privacy screen.  The door could even be unlocked from the inside – if one possessed a key, which Della presently did not.  Also, the wall containing the door consisted entirely of shatterproof (indeed, bulletproof) glass, and the two gossip magazines on the table next to Della’s chair were both some five months out of date.

“I thought,” Della told Moira MacTaggert, “we were more or less on the same side.”

Moira eyed her sourly.  “That was before your boss took on Caradoc Rhys O’Sullivan on as a client.  That man killed two federal agents on his way to stealing the plans for a classified military communications satellite.”

“Nonsense,” said Della, bemusedly.  “Yes, Mr. O’Sullivan works for MI-6, but there’s no reason for the British to be stealing our satellite technology.  There’s no physical evidence linking him to the gun that was used.  And he was…working with a Canadian agent on a smuggling case at precisely the time the killings took place.”

“Canoodling, you mean,” Moira retorted.  “Which would be a better alibi if the security cameras at the Empire didn’t clearly show your Mr. O’Sullivan slipping up the back stairs to the seventeenth floor, at exactly the right time to catch our agents going off-shift.”

“Film can be doctored,” Della pointed out, “and I understand one can do astonishing things with latex these days in the name of disguise.  As Perry reads it, someone’s deliberately trying to weaken US-British relations by framing Agent O’Sullivan for that theft.  And so far, they’re doing a damned good job of it.”

Moira sighed.  “From his angle, I suppose it’s a valid theory.  I’d like it better if there were anyone at all on our radar just now we could tag as the mastermind behind something like that.”

Della chuckled.  “When you put it that way, that’s a decent point.  I don’t imagine real spycraft is much like James Bond’s adventures – fewer mad geniuses, more plain old thugs and thieves.”

“That’s true, mostly,” Moira agreed.  “though your Agent O’Sullivan seems to fancy himself rather a Bond sort.  Goodness knows enough bodies have turned up in his wake.”

“And if you’ll just give Perry and Paul a chance, we may be able to find out who’s putting them there,” Della replied, levering herself out of her chair.  “I’m sure they’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”

Moira stepped back and lifted a hand.  “Not just yet, if you don’t mind.  I think perhaps they’ll do better work if they’re worried about you.  I assure you, we’ll take good care of you for the duration.”

Della pointedly did not sit down again.  “Moira MacTaggert,” she said, “don’t make me do something we’d both regret.”  She raised her own left hand as if in readiness to strike out, her right dropping to her waist.

Moira eyed Della’s posture, shook her head slightly, and laughed.  “You can’t possibly be serious, Della.  I have a black belt in judo and third-degree rank in aikido.”

“I thought as much,” Della replied, her voice cool.  “But I don’t think you actually want to hurt me – or annoy me enough to make me use this.”  Her right hand came up in a quick motion…with a compact semi-automatic pistol in it.

Moira blinked.  “That’s – not possible,” she said, slowly.  “We searched you when we brought you in.  There is no way you’ve had that gun on you all this time.”

“What matters,” Della told her, “is that I’ve got it now.  Unlock that door, would you please?  It’s time I was on my way.”

“Even if I do,” Moira said, “you’d have to get through three floors worth of security in order to get out of the building.  We’ve got you way, way outnumbered.”

“I’m sure they’ll cooperate if you come along to escort me out,” said Della evenly.  “Neither one of us really wants a firefight, now do we?”

Moira pursed her lips.  “I – suppose not,” she said.  “All right, then.”

She slid one hand into her pocket, presumably reaching for the key—

—then spun on her left foot, the right flying upward in a kick aimed at Della’s gun hand—

—only to stumble abruptly, landing in a sprawl on the floor, where she stared in amazement at Della’s _other_ hand—

—which was somehow holding Moira’s left shoe.

“That’s not possible.”  Moira’s tone was one of hushed shock.

“So you’d think,” Della said mildly, tossing the shoe aside.  She transferred the gun to her left hand, then made a flicking gesture with her right, and smiled thinly as a key dropped out of the air into her waiting palm.  “But there it is.  Not that anyone’s likely to believe you if you try to tell them about it,” she added.  “Come on, I still need that escort.”

But Moira didn’t get up.  She did rearrange herself, dazedly, so that she sat with her knees crossed lotus-fashion.  “Teleportation,” she whispered.  “Telekinesis.  Telepathy.  Mutations….”  Della stared down at her, watching in silence as Moira’s entire body began to shudder, vibrating with an odd energy that seemed to both alarm and exhilarate her.  The state persisted for several minutes, and Della watched for the full duration, both too fascinated and too cautious to interrupt it.

Finally, Moira’s shivering reached a climax and stopped.  She opened her eyes, looked up at Della, and awkwardly unfolded herself.  “ _Thank you_ ,” she said in a tone of utter sincerity.  “You have no idea how much I needed that.”

“No argument there,” said Della.  “Do I dare ask what just happened?”

“I got a big chunk of my life back, is what,” Moira told her.  “When I saw you do that trick with my shoe, it kicked open a whole set of memories I don’t even remember having lost.”

“It’s a quirk,” Della said.  “It only works on relatively small or lightweight things, and mostly it only works on things I can see.  But if I _mark_ something – leave a mental fingerprint on it, so to speak – I can make it come from much farther away.”

Moira nodded.  “Like that gun,” she said, gesturing at the weapon Della was still holding, though it was now pointed only at the floor.  She paused suddenly as a mental light bulb went off.  “Or that file Sebastian Shaw wanted two years ago.  You called it right out of his safe, didn’t you?”

“I did,” said Della.  “That was…tricky.  Distance mostly doesn’t matter for things I’ve marked, but if something’s been sealed up somehow, that sometimes makes a difference.”

“Charles could probably explain that,” Moira said, then frowned.  “Assuming I don’t kill him first, for the whole memory-blocking thing.”

Della arched an eyebrow.  “Charles?”

“Long story,” Moira told her.  “Much too long for right now, but I promise I’ll catch you up.  Right now, I absolutely need to get you back to your boss.  If I’m right, I know exactly who’s pulling the setup on good old Agent O’Sullivan – but you won’t ever be able to nail them in a straight-ahead court case, because they’ve got skills like yours, only on steroids.”

“Skills like mine?” Della echoed.

“On steroids,” Moira confirmed.  “Shaw did too, for that matter – before he got himself killed.”

Della let out a long breath.  “I don’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified,” she said.  “My – quirk has been incredibly useful over the years, but it always seemed safest to keep it to myself.  Not even Perry knows.”

Moira plucked the cell key from Della’s hand and moved to open the door.  “Let’s move,” she said, gently tugging Della along with her.  “Levene?” she called as they stepped into the corridor.  “Pull some files for me while I’m out, will you?  Darkholme, Frost – and the Hellfire Club.  I have a feeling we’re about to get really busy.”

# # #


End file.
